


Sentimental Journey

by hypatheticallyspeaking



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Gen, Kidge - Freeform, Unbeta'd, WWII AU, and the fact that it's a war, lots of gen friendships, pretty much everyone makes an appearance - Freeform, rated t for cursing, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 15:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11061588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypatheticallyspeaking/pseuds/hypatheticallyspeaking
Summary: Katie Holt takes on the guise of Pidge Gunderson to find her family. She doesn't expect it to change her life.





	Sentimental Journey

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for waiting for this fic that took nearly 2 months to write.

**December 1941**

She hates the smell of doctor’s offices: alcohol-based antiseptics and starched sheets. Her fingers tap anxiously against her thigh as she fixes the collar of the shirt she stole from her brother’s wardrobe. Going through with this changes her entire life, that she can never go back.

Her breathing is shallow, and it has nothing to do with the bandages wrapped tightly around her chest. She inhales slowly this time, counting as she inhales and exhales.

There’s a knock on the door and she steels herself once more. Yeah, she’s doing this.

“You say your name is Pidge Gunderson?” The man with the clipboard and list of her somewhat falsified medical history scowls at her. “Eighteen years old, son of a chemist?”

“Yessir.” It’s only partially a lie. She’s a year off from turning eighteen, and she’s _definitely_ not male. She stands at attention, knowing full-well that this doctor also holds the rank of a second lieutenant.

“Why do you want to enlist, boy?”

Katie smiles wryly at that. “Sir, there are better and worse men than me who have laid down their lives. Some of them are men I’ve known my entire life. And if I’m already a better shot than half the people who are in basic training, why should I avoid the conflict?”

“There’s no way you’re a better shot than the others who are going through basic training.”

She frowns, her eyes narrowing. “If I can shoot a moving target anywhere from fifteen yards with a pistol with an eighty-seven percent accuracy rate and hold my own in hand-to-hand combat, wouldn’t those skills be better out in the field?”

There’s a moment of silence, and she narrow her eyes slightly. Has she said too much? Is he going to ruin all her hard work and falsified papers? Is he going to stop her when she’s so close to getting access to the truth?

The man sighs, “My commanding officer said to expedite your process.” He folds his arms across his chest with a huff. “Can’t see why he’d want a damn brat like you, but I won’t go against orders.”

“Maybe I’ll surprise you, sir.” She can’t help the smirk that’s now crossing her face.

He signs the information on the clipboard. “Welcome to the Army, soldier. Your training starts in three weeks.”

“Yessir.” She hops off the elevated chair. She’s not looking forward to the bloodshed, but she can’t help the pride that improves her posture and the swagger that she walks out with.

**January 1942**

Basic training isn’t as bad as she expects. She flies under the radar for the most part. She’s assigned bunkmates in their small section of the barracks. She’s not necessarily sure what to think of the men she’s been stationed with. They’re both brilliant, in their own ways. Even if they get on her nerves at one point or another.

Lance doesn’t typically show his true personality. He’s outwardly a womanizer—Katie can only imagine what he’d do if she were to grow out her hair and wear the dresses her mother favors—but he really is a good soul. He’s their sharpshooter, the best one they’ve had in years. And he’s done everything to support their group in his own, overly-outgoing way.

Then there’s Hunk. He doesn’t have the stomach for violence; he was recruited for his engineering prowess, something that’s seriously taken for granted on the front lines. He’s a good shot with tank machinery as well, always good in a tough situation. Even if he doesn’t feel too great afterwards.

Honestly, Katie’s glad she’s met them, because they bring a semblance of humanity to the constant rhythm of cadences and the staccato sound of gunfire.

Her muscles are sore, but that doesn’t matter when she’s improved her strength. The knots in her back will fade, even if the smell of gunpowder and sweat doesn’t seem like it will ever wash out of her clothes. She can assemble her pistol blindfolded in a matter of seconds, and her feet carry her faster than she ever would be permitted to in a skirt.

Honestly, she’s never been more free.

 

**April 1942**

She and her teammates are deployed early from boot camp, to an obscure new post in enemy-infested territory. Every day comes with a new lesson, a new bond forged between the soldiers.

Their commander is a man she’s known for several years but who she hasn’t seen in nearly two. Not since… not since her family members were declared missing in action. He’s different now, a bit jaded, physically scarred with a white streak of hair that definitely wasn’t there when they’d last interacted two years ago. There’s a glint of recognition in his eyes that transforms into one of reluctant acceptance when she introduces herself as Pidge Gunderson.

He pulls her aside after introductions, as the others are getting settled into their bunks. It’s a forceful tug on her elbow that tears her out of the crowd and into a private place behind the armory. The scowl on his face sets the mood for their conversation.

This could be it: he could discharge her, and everything would be over.

Please, no, she’s so _close_.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice is gruff, guarded.

“My family’s _missing_ , Shiro. What the fuck do you think I’m doing?” Great. First day on the job and she’s already cussed at her commanding officer.

There’s the sound of footsteps as another officer emerges from the armory. He looks over at them with an intense gaze, that indicates he’s overheard the last bit of their short conversation. “Careful, Shiro. The soldiers will think you have favorites.” His voice holds a teasing lilt, but there’s a warning nonetheless. Watch your actions around here.

“Don’t you have troops to inspect?”

The man leaves, grumbling something about secrets under his breath.

A silence falls, only to be amplified by the late summer breeze that evening. She doesn’t shiver, no. That doesn’t change the cold that permeates to her bones.

He sighs. “Katie, look.”

She bites her tongue, drawing a bit of blood. It’s become second nature to answer to the name Pidge, and even to correct herself when she thinks of herself as Katie Holt.

“I won’t fight you being here. I want to find Commander Holt and your brother as much as you. Matt’s one of my closest friends, I’m not giving up on them.” He extends a hand. “But you need to keep who you are a secret.”

“Thank you.” She takes his hand, shaking it firmly.

“If you need anything, let me know.”

“Well, every once in a while I’ll need to run logistics or something rather than being out in the field.” She hates to say it, but it’s a fact.

His face blanches, and he takes a second before responding, “Done.”

She smirks at that. “Hey, you’re the one who asked.”

It’s only later that she learns the identity of the man who had interrupted their conversation. Keith. Their hotheaded teammate-slash-second-in-command whose strength stems from rash action that has thus far paid off. Somehow, they all balance each other as a team.

When they actually manage to set aside all their conflicts, as rare as those occasions are, Pidge and Keith somehow seem to work together well.

But then they’re at odds again, for one reason or another. It doesn’t help that Keith feels entitled to know why Shiro shows Pidge preferential treatment. Even if he _has_ admitted that Pidge is one of the best soldiers they’ve got and everyone knows it.

 

**August 1942**

The thought came to her while she was working on decoding recent transmissions: it’s so much easier to run a team logistically if the names of the officers and weapons are made of nonsensical terms themselves. So, when their small team—the five of them under the watch of two strategic advisors—receives a mission, it’s headed to Voltron. Honestly, she finds a sick sense of humor of messing with the enemy, even if they have created machines to crack any coded messages.

Their forte consists of small-scale but vital missions into areas controlled by the enemy and freeing prisoners of war. The winter was harsh, but they’d made it through with stalwart hearts and a desire to do good in the world. After their first prison break, they were recruited by the strategic advisors, Allura and Coran, to repeat the process, doing the odd jobs that only a specialized team can do. (Pidge remembers the woman grinning, saying, “And if you kill some Galra soldiers, I’m not about to complain.”)

They end up on the outskirts of the enemy nation in the dead of night. Hunk’s on guard duty, and he seems to be going a good job until there’s the sound of breaking branches and a young woman barrels straight into their camp, nearly toppling over the engineer. Her hair’s cut short, in a bob reminiscent of a style twenty years earlier, and she backs away, apologizing in a language that Pidge doesn’t understand.

“Uh, sorry. Do you speak English?”

“Yes. Thank God,” the woman says, before collapsing with tears streaming down her face.

The young woman—Shay, she tells them later—is an escapee from a prison camp, the one that they’re supposed to be liberating. It takes some coaxing, but she’s willing to tell them all she knows about the Galra sentries and how to break into the camp. It’s all she’s known for over a year, and it’s surprising to see that the harsh world hasn’t broken her spirit.

Pidge is the one who takes sentry duty that night, and she overhears the conversation between Hunk and the girl. Shay asks him about how much the world has changed, and what it’s like to live where the members of Voltron are from. Hunk paints a beautiful picture of the rest of the world: everywhere has their hardships, but there’s freedom, the ability to be whoever you want to be.

A genuine smile crosses Pidge’s face, something she hasn’t done in what feels like an eternity.

Their faint campfire has nearly turned to embers and coals by the time Hunk moves to relieve Pidge from sentry duty, just to give her a few hours of shut-eye. But he ushers her further away from the camp before letting her fall face-first into her bedroll.

“Pidge, can you look out for Shay?”

“We all are,” she points out. “Vital information and she’s a nice person. You don’t need to worry about your _girlfriend_ ,” she teases.

He shakes his head, and it’s barely visible in the darkness. “No, she needs someone else to trust. And honestly, being surrounded by a bunch of men must be terrifying.”

It feels like her tongue is made of lead as she asks, “What do you mean, Hunk?”

He lowers his voice, even though they’re far enough from the campsite. “I mean she could use another girl to talk to, Pidge.”

Her world goes ice-cold and red-hot all at once. “What are you _talking about_?” The words are a dagger poised to strike.

His hands are raised defensively. “I’ve known since basic training. You really shouldn’t leave your journal out in public.”

Crap, crap, crap! She’s so screwed. What happens if someone else finds out? What is Hunk going to do? A million scenarios run through her mind in a hundredth of a second, and it feels like the world’s crushing the air from her lungs.

“Shit.” She curses, the word lingering in the springtime chill.

“I won’t tell anyone. I haven’t _told_ anyone, even if people are trying to figure out why you act so strangely sometimes.” He sighs. “I just… there’s nothing wrong with using it to your advantage, you know?”

“I just… I can’t lose this.”

“I know.” He gives her a hug, and it’s only then that she realizes her entire body was shaking. “Just… give it some thought, okay?”

She doesn’t get a wink of sleep that night. As dawn breaks, she finds Shay and offers to take her out on a walk to clear the other woman’s head.

It’s partially to clear her own thoughts as well.

 

**December 1943**

It’s only around the winter holidays that Allura and Coran decide to give the soldiers of Voltron a break. They’re given three weeks of leave to do whatever they want. Hunk and Lance return stateside to spend the holidays with their loved ones. Lance’s extensive family sends him letters constantly, and he misses them; it’s evident in his blue eyes every time he receives a message from home. Hunk’s spending his holiday integrating Shay’s family into his own family traditions—they have a running bet for how long it will take the lovebirds to realize that they’re so _good_ for each other and get married already. Shiro and Keith are visiting an old colleague who’s stationed not too far from the base of operations.

It feels like everyone else knows to reach out to those people important to them. But Katie’s mother believes that she’s been enrolled in an advanced program for women with an aptitude for codebreaking, and that she’s currently stationed in France. So, showing up out of the blue, when she already sent an early Hanukkah gift and long letter to her mom, would make it nearly impossible to leave again.

She sits in the small office set aside for Voltron, tinkering away at a new mechanical invention of hers. One of the holidays her family celebrated has already passed, and the other won’t pass for another couple days. She’s Katie Holt and Pidge Gunderson. Of course, she throws herself into her work.

That’s how Allura discovers her at seven in the morning, tinkering away as though there’s nothing else in the world other than a time-delayed messaging system.

“Dear heavens, Pidge!”

Her fingers slip on the spring she was using, and the coiled wire flings itself across the room, skittering underneath Keith’s well-kept desk. She smirks at the thought of the look on his face if something were to be out of place before replying, “Allura? What are you doing here?”

The woman frowns. “I _was_ supposed to be closing up the office for the entirety of your break.” Her face softens, “Why aren’t you going home, Pidge?”

“It would kill my mother to see me like this.” She can only imagine her mother running fingers through now-nonexistent locks and tears pouring down her face. “Not when she’s lost everyone else.”

Allura grabs Pidge by the arms, pulling her to standing. “Now, that is _no_ way to treat your holiday! You’re joining me and Coran in the countryside if your alternative is moping about here!”

The intensity in the woman’s eyes is honestly a bit terrifying. More than a bit. Pidge can’t stop the waver in her voice as she replies, “Yes ma’am.”

Turns out, Allura’s family has history going back generations, and her childhood home resembles more of a castle than the white-picket fence Pidge had been expecting. It’s been maintained by housekeepers, but there’s an air of loneliness. It takes her a while before she remembers that Allura’s parents had been stolen from her—her mother while she was a child, and her father during the early days of the war.

But with Allura’s vivacious energy and Coran’s uncle-like attempts at humor, it’s easy enough to forget that they aren’t all family.

“C’mon!” Allura calls out on Christmas Eve, her voice echoing in the main hall. “We’re going into town tonight! There’s the annual procession!”

“Yeah, you’ve only told me two dozen times,” Pidge grumbles, but she’s secretly looking forward to it. “I’m coming!” She tugs on a long coat over her male civilian clothes.

It’s beautiful, it really is. She spends her time listening to old stories from Allura and Coran, the latter’s a bit more far-fetched than she’d normally believe. But she doesn’t contradict the orange-haired soldier. After all, it’s almost Christmas.

They have a small lunch in one of the town’s pubs, and it’s the first time since her father vanished that she’s allowed her to remember happy holiday traditions rather than lingering on the fact that they were still missing.

There’s a girl in a white dress, with paper angel wings, and Pidge smiles. She begins to recount how her parents managed to compromise on their religions to keep both of their beliefs alive in their children. She tells Allura and Coran how they would light the menorah for Hanukkah together, her and Matt taking turns, every other day. How they would set up her father’s old manger set on the windowsill, and how even though she’d help her mom with dinner, Matt would insist that he would be the first to try the food because he was the—shit. She stalls, clamming up.

“What, Pidge?”

“I just… never mind.”

“It sounds like a lovely family. Seems a bit like things I would do, but I suppose your mother would always enjoy having help for such a big event.”

Coran watches her with a surprising amount of calm. “Well, I’m sure that the angel brought back good memories,” he comments.

“Yeah. They were.” Her eyes linger on a green dress in a shop window, something that Katie Holt would have worn without a second thought. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

Coran pipes up again, “You do know, you don’t have to keep dressing like that. We’ve still got two weeks left.”

Pidge curses internally. “I guess.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Allura’s confusion is only amplified by the raising pitch of her voice. “Why would Pidge be wearing a dres—oh.”

It feels awful, that she’s revealed as a liar on such a happy day. “Uh, I’ll see you back at the castle.” She drops some money on the table before running through the town streets, ignorant of the snow that starts to fall from the sky and blanket the humble town of Arus.

The next day, there’s a present resting under the tree with her name on it, with a small tag attached: _Your secret’s safe with me_. And then, hastily scrawled on the opposite side, a message from Coran: _I didn’t think you were hiding, sorry Pidge!_

It’s the green winter dress.

 

**February 1944**

It feels like every single time they get closer to striking the heart of the Galra Empire, they’re met with another impasse. This time, it’s a trap, where she’s at the center of an impossible situation. If she does the wrong thing, Lance dies, no doubt about it. Their cover had been blown in town, and Pidge had no time to react before they were both knocked unconscious.

The room they’re in is part of a basement. A root cellar of some sort, she realizes, based on the smell and what remained on the shelves. There’s a clothesline with some old garments hanging in one corner of the room. Pidge takes a breath to calm herself; she’s tied back-to-back with Lance, and he struggles to no avail.

“We need a plan,” he says, and she can imagine the serious look on his face.

“I know.”

“Do you have one?”

She shakes her head. “No. Not one where we’d both get out of here alive. Typically, I’d slip out of the ropes and steal a set of clothes… but seeing as they’ve only got dresses in this basement…”

Lance curses, the only foreign words it seems he’s learned during their time in the field. “You know, Pidge, there’s a way to get you out of here safely. You might not like it, but…”

“No way in hell am I leaving anyone to die. Doesn’t matter where I am and what people think of me. I’ll be damned if anyone tries hurting me or making me leave the people I’d risk my life for. And there aren’t many of those I’ve got anymore.”

Silence falls again, and she works on slowly working the ropes to loosen the knots. It’s an advantage to having an older brother who liked practicing knots, she supposes, as she uses experience to wriggle free of the knots. She undoes Lance’s in less than a minute, but then there’s the sound of footsteps upstairs. It sounds like a scuffle, and there’s a lone gunshot.

They make eye contact and share their one thought: “Well, shit.”

Pidge would laugh at that if she weren’t terrified for her life.

“Grab the ends of the ropes,” Lance says. “We’ll trip them.”

Pidge grins at that, and they wait in silence until the footsteps get louder. They pull the ropes taut, waiting as the person barrels down the stairs.

“Pidge! Lance! Where are yo—oof!” The person trips, faceplanting into the ground.

Lance bursts out into laughter, while Pidge darts forward, moving to pick up the familiar figure from the ground. He’s wearing an enemy uniform, but she’d recognize him anywhere.

“Keith?”

“Guess you _didn’t_ need saving.” He grins, and Pidge returns the expression.

“Nah, but the assistance is much appreciated.”

 

**November 1944**

The plane’s engines rattle as the strong winds buffet the sides of the plane. Coran manages to maintain their position quite well, despite the starless night and strong winds. Pidge holds onto the netting above her head as the red lights flash, indicating the opening of the plane’s door. Shiro barks out orders as though it’s life-or-death. It is, but all their missions have been.

They all prepare for their jump, tightening their clothes and cargo with them. She’s the third to depart, between Hunk and Lance, with Shiro taking point on the mission. She breathes, steeling herself before jumping out into the bitter night.

She follows procedure, deploying her parachute so that enemies won’t be able to spot her easily. After all, the mission requires stealth and care—her specialties, if she’d ever allow herself to boast. But what she can’t anticipate is that her chute gets caught in a tree, suspending her a solid fifteen feet above the ground. She really, really _loathes_ outdoors.

It takes a bit of twisting, but she manages to reach the blade she keeps strapped to her belt. She cuts the straps, allowing herself to slip out of the harness that’s digging into her skin. She lands on uneven ground, swallowing a shout of pain as her ankle rolls. The mission starts in two days’ time, and she needs to be in position.

She looks up towards the tree, eyeing the vital equipment tangled in the branches. 

There’s a rustle in the trees behind her, and she draws her gun. Her vision has always been good—despite the prescriptionless glasses she’s been accustomed to wearing. But she still can’t determine their identity in the inky darkness.

“Need a hand, Pidge?”

“That would be great, Keith.” She holsters her gun. “All of my gear’s up in the tree.”

“You can’t reach it?”

“Second shortest is still taller than me,” she points out.

He drops his pack near her, before moving to scale the tree. He’s like a cat, graceful and silent. It takes less than a minute until her own materials and additional tools are dropped from above. They land at her feet with a soft thud, and her superior officer touches down in near silence. She tugs on her gear, doing her best ignore the dull throbbing in her ankle.

She can walk it off.

They make it two miles north before she has to ask to stop. She leans against a tree, breathing heavily.

“What’s wrong?”

She scowls at that; she’s not trying to slow him down. “I think my ankle’s sprained.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it earlier because…?” He motions for her to sit down, and the relief when weight is removed from her ankle is wonderful. After pulling out a flashlight, Keith rolls up the hem of her uniform, scowling as though the injury has personally offended him. He tugs off her boot, and she does her best to avoid wincing.

“I thought it wasn’t bad,” she admits as he gently pokes at the swollen joint. “Clearly, I was wrong.”

He grabs materials from his bag, beginning to set her ankle. She can see the concentration and concern on his face. It softens his features, and he looks strangely attractive in the light. She shakes that thought from her head as he says, “It might be broken, Pidge.”

She does her best to keep her reactions under wraps, cursing aloud. “We can steal a truck. There’s supposed to be a town… a half-mile east.”

“You shouldn’t even be walking that far if it’s broken,” he replies, helping her re-string her bootlaces.

“We’ve got two days, and half a mile is about ten minutes.”

“I’ll radio Shiro.”

Voltron, as a collective, has practically mastered the art of improvising after plans going awry.

They make their way, slowly but surely, towards the town. She’s leaning against him for support. They manage to find an old truck, a bit worn down, but Pidge can tell from a single look at the engine that it’s in working condition. Hoisting herself into the passenger’s seat, she gestures for Keith to start the engine.

“Where are the keys?”

“Are you joking?”

“No?”

“You’ve been in the military for what, five years? And you don’t know how to hotwire a car?”

He scowls at that. “Never needed to.”

She laughs at that before walking him through the steps. They get to their mutual destination with a day and a half of extra time. It’s a long-abandoned building on the outskirts of a town, uninhabited for months, if not years, based on the thick layer of dust.

Pidge makes herself comfortable on the only bed, propping up her ankle with a hiss of pain. She hears Keith rummaging about in the neighboring rooms, looking for supplies and probably any extra food. There’s a vain hope that the throbbing in her ankle doesn’t count her out of the battle for this fight.

Keith walks into the room with a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. He sets them on the bedside table and pours out a generous glass for each of them. He hands one to her.

“What is it?” Pidge wonders aloud, twisting the glass in her hand.

“Pretty sure it’s bourbon. This stuff hasn’t been sold in years.” He raises his glass, clinking it against hers. “It’ll help with the pain.”

“Cheers.” She takes a sip, nearly choking on the amber-colored liquid. It burns; she should have expected that. But in all her years as a soldier, she hasn’t drank much.

“How old are you, really?” Keith asks, arching an eyebrow. She replies automatically, the lie not even phasing her. “There’s no way you’re twenty-one.”

“I may have lied on my application,” she admits, a half-truth. “You’re what now, twenty-four?” They’d recently celebrated his birthday without a mention of his age.

“Twenty-three. Enlisted before we joined the war, and ended up here.” His voice sounds slightly bitter about it. “At the very least, I’m not the youngest of Voltron.”

Pidge huffs at that before swallowing about half of the glass. She coughs this time. The others know that her family’s been lost, that they’re likely prisoners of war or dead. “I needed—I need some resolution. And protecting people in the process is a bonus.”

“I’ll drink to that.” It’s surprising that he doesn’t press further, but there’s something on his mind. She’d ask, but the companionable silence is quite nice.

 

**May 1945**

It’s the last push of the war, or at least the war plans. Pidge is grounded from the current mission, having caught a bullet in the shoulder two weeks earlier. She’s recovering quite nicely, but it stinks, having to sit out for the first time in maybe two years.

She’s in charge of communications, as usual, but this time she’s stuck in the nearby temporary headquarters, sitting right next to Coran and Allura. The mission is in-progress, infiltration with the hopes of discovering new information on Galra troop movements. They work like a well-oiled machine, and honestly, she does her best to stay out of the way. Taking her time, she moves through the exercises the doctor gave her, slowly stretching and reaching her left arm up and down, forward and back.

As much as she loathes to admit it, she is _bored_.

Honestly, it should be a good thing. No messages, no emergency exfiltration.

But she hates waiting.

She hates not being there.

She hates—

“Allura, come in!” Shiro’s voice crackles across the radio, broken and garbled but still understandable.

“We hear you, Shiro.”

There’s the sound of gunfire over the radio, and their leader’s voice comes in again, this time a little clearer. “Keith’s hit and we’re at the exfil point.”

She can’t help the worry that haunts her. Here, she can’t do anything, can’t take out the enemy or help with a way to fortify their defenses. It’s worse not knowing. She doesn’t understand how Allura and Coran can handle the suspense and anxiety—was it like this when she was shot? Pidge stands, ignoring that the headset keeps her attached to the radio. She wants to help, she can’t lose anyone she cares about, even if this _is_ war.

“On our way.” Allura pulls on her pack, slipping the straps over her shoulders. “Did you complete the mission?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Pidge stands up, moving to grab her own gear as well. Noticing it, Allura shoots her a glare. “Pidge, stay on comms. We need this to go to plan.”

“I can—”

“That’s an order!” With that shout, Allura’s darting out of the door.

Coran shifts over to Pidge, wrapping an arm around the young woman’s shoulders. It’s welcomed, for sure, but it does _nothing_ to alleviate the worry that’s taken root. “He’ll be okay, Katie.”

It’s strange, hearing him use her first name. She freezes slightly, feeling tears well up in the corners of her eyes. Sniffing, she blinks the tears away and pulls away from the hug. “Tell me what I can do.” She swallows, “I can’t lose anyone else. Not again. Not for real.” She dries her eyes, a look of determination on her face.

Coran nods, instructing her to clear the spare table and rub it down the first-aid materials with alcohol. She’s readying gauze and more antiseptics, while constantly glancing back to the radio for any new updates. The lights flicker overhead ominously and she taps her fingers anxiously against the table, drumming out a metallic rhythm as they wait.

“We’re coming in,” Allura calls out, her voice picking up on the radio more clearly than their earlier conversation. “Coran, prep medical.”

“Already done, princess!”

It’s a rush of bodies, of hastened movement. There’s blood. She’s accustomed to blood, but there’s a visceral reaction when she sees Keith unconscious with a bullet wound to his torso. He’s paler than his usual light skin tone, and it looks eerie with the yellowish lights that flicker overhead. Pidge sticks to Coran’s side, helping where she can. Thankfully, they’re able to stop the bleeding and bandage the wound.

She’d prefer boredom to this. Bloodied hands, watching as one of the most important people in her life slowly regains a stable breathing pattern. She’d rather not have to risk losing any of her friends, any of her new family. She takes a seat next to the table, only looking up when the others want her insight on the collected information. They’ve all been injured; they all have their own scars. But seeing him on death’s door is too much.

It’s a few hours when Keith wakes up in a haze from the morphine they’d given him. Pidge can’t help squeezing his hand, as though it’s a lifeline.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, opening his canteen with one hand.

He groans as the others rush to his side and put old folded rags to prop him up. “Like I got shot in the chest.”

They laugh at that and it only mildly tempers the worry in her heart.

At the very least, they won’t be on the front lines for quite some time.

 

**December 1945**

Katie returns home right after the first snows, as frost curls across windowpanes every morning. She remembers the smell of her mother’s cooking and her childhood home. But it’s strange, returning home. She no longer feels like a normal member of society. She hails a taxi when she gets off the train, and the look she gets from the cabbie—a woman alone and with no one waiting—is almost enough to make her wish to travel back across the ocean.

Their family house feels like a distant memory. She tugs on her jacket, covering up the dress that Allura had purchased for the holidays two years earlier. The house is just as Katie remembers, teal shutters and white siding. Despite the rationing, everything still appears to be up-and-running, with lights on and smoke moving up from the fireplace.

It's late afternoon as she walks forward, the sun fading into crimson and orange hues as it dips in the sky. She pulls her jacket closer around her shoulders, a small smile forming on her face. It's good to be home, after all these years. Her shoes crunch on the ice and snow that litters the pathway to the main door. Rather than being hesitant, avoiding the confrontation with her mother, she moves deliberately. She knocks three times, a solid indicator of her presence.

There's a shuffle from inside, the sound of the radio being turned down. She hears her mother call out from the inside of the house, curious as to who could possibly be arriving at this random hour of the day.

Katie doesn't know what to say. After all, she hasn't seen her mother in years. She hasn't been exactly truthful about where she's been, although she told the truth about being overseas, about working with the military. And if her mom assumed that she was codebreaking from a safe little bunker, who was she to disagree? After all, her mom has suffered enough.

The front door creaks open, revealing her mother with a thick woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Colleen Holt looks exactly the way she did when Katie packed a suitcase and left over four years earlier: short hair and weary eyes, but a smile that could brighten even the darkest day if you needed it.

"Kitty?" Her voice is hoarse, filled with disbelief and confusion.

"I haven't heard that name in years," Katie replies, unable to keep the tears from welling up in the corners of her eyes. "I'm home, mom."

There are no more words to be exchanged, just the feeling of arms wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her into a warm embrace. She can smell food cooking from inside, but Katie's more concerned with the feeling of having her mother at her side and freedom from bullets flying and bombs cascading from overhead.

"Thank God you made it home alive," her mother whispers after escorting her into the sitting room. "I don't know what I would have done if you'd been taken from me too."

She had been so stubborn about joining the military to search for her brother and father, that she hadn't realized how hard it must have been for her mother. "I'm sorry." She rubs the tears from her eyes, almost forgetting that she's wearing Matt's old pair of now-prescriptionless glasses. Taking the frames off, she tucks them into the pocket of her jacket. "I didn't find them, mom. I tried. I searched every record I could get my hands on. I found Shiro, but he didn't know what happened either. And then there was fighting, with us having to run from safe house to safe house..."

The older woman just shakes her head. "It doesn't matter," she says, pulling Katie's hands into hers and kneeling to meet her daughter's line of vision. "I have my daughter back, after all of this. There's nothing more that I could have asked for."

"I promised to find them," Katie insists, leveling her gaze with her mother's. "And it doesn't matter how long it takes. I won't stop searching, because I know that Dad and Matt aren't dead. I can feel it."

That's the end of the conversation, but she knows she will never break that promise.

 

**April 1946**

It's strange, returning to wearing her old uniform. It's been a few months since the war's end, and the once-ruined uniform is starched to the point of itching her skin and scraping at her old wounds. Her hair just began to brush past her shoulders when she received the phone call.

Of course she's going; they're some of her closest friends. Shay had insisted that Katie be made a bridesmaid, but she refused, insisting on returning in the guise she'd used during the war. After all, some of their superiors might decide to actually accept the courtesy invitations, and she'd rather not be imprisoned.

The wedding is small, held by a pastor and a rabbi—and Katie can't help wondering if this is what her parents' wedding was like all those years ago. The reception is in Hunk and Shay's well-maintained garden, with music playing and food set out on the tables for a homestyle meal. The weather's beautiful, not a cloud in the sky on the temperate spring day.

Pidge sits in a chair by the garden, drinking a glass of lemonade. It's still a bit too cool for the drink, but it's her favorite thing since rationing was lifted. She feels a bit out-of-place, since she can't go and dance with the other couples. She doesn't know how to lead and she has two left feet. Besides, she doesn't want to draw any attention when she's here as Pidge Gunderson rather than Katherine Holt. Her hair’s already past regulation standard; any additional attention is unwanted.

Despite it all, she still wants to stand up and participate even though Commander Iverson decided to grace his former trainee with his presence.

Lance takes a seat next to her, slouching a bit. He's finally getting a break from his duties as the best man. The music changes to a slower song, something that has all the couples swaying in each other’s arms. He speaks up slowly, as though testing out the words. "You could have come as yourself, Pidge."

She blinks in confusion and mild panic—who told him? "I really couldn't."

"The war's over," he says with a smile.

"I'm not done with it. Not quite yet." She tilts her glass towards Commander Iverson. "Besides, I don't want to be stuck in a cell for being a pivotal part in the war. He wasn't exactly happy when other countries let women act as spies, imagine how he'd react."

He puts a hand on her shoulder. "You're stubborn. I get that. But remember, we'll support you finding your family, even if you're not wearing a soldier's uniform."

"I'll take the stubbornness as a compliment." She smiles at him before her brow crinkles in thought. "How long have you known?"

"A while."

"More specific than that," she insists, keeping an eye out for any eavesdroppers.

He clears his throat, and she can see the blush tinting his tan skin. "Well, when Shay was traveling with us, you were the only one who didn't... wig out about... things. At first, I thought it was because you were clinical and calm. But there were times when you should have been on missions but weren't. I'd guessed it by the time that we were captured and Keith came to break us out. Your ramblings just confirmed what I'd suspected."

"Oh." She knows that it's not the expected response, but she's surprised that Lance had managed to keep her secret for all these years without telling a single soul. Not that he's a gossip, but he's always had a bit of flair and theatre to his actions.

"I bet I'm the last to have my suspicions confirmed."

"Nope." She tilts her glass again, but this time towards the party's other wallflower. "Keith's the only one who hasn't said anything at all." She purses her lips. "He probably suspected me at the start but Shiro’s good at keeping secrets. Well, I suppose Keith just thinks that I enlisted extremely young."

"Denial is a strong thing."

Katie giggles at that, slipping from the soldier guise, but she quickly covers it with a cough.

"And I was hoping I'd be able to dance with the girl behind the uniform."

"I'd intentionally step on your toes," she teases, lifting the lemonade to her lips. "And you wouldn't be able to complain... even if Shay hadn't asked me to be her maid of honor."

He seems genuinely sad about that. "Are dresses really that terrifying?"

She smirks. "Losing access to classified military records is."

He pats her on the head, and all it does is ruffle her already disheveled hair. "You should tell Keith the truth at least. I might not agree with him half the time, but it's not like he'd be able to court martial you.” He pauses before adding, “Or that he'd want to anyway."

Yeah, he could just hate her for keeping it a secret instead.

Lance pokes her forehead, smoothing the wrinkles on her brow before saying, "Look, you're only going to hurt yourself more, the longer you wait." There's the unspoken realization on Lance's part—she feels something for their senior officer. "You should tell him the truth, Pidge."

"Yeah, I should."

She doesn't though. Somehow, she can fight in a war, she can destroy a fleet of fighter planes, she can spit in a Galra general's eye, but telling the truth about herself to the guy she might feel something for is more terrifying than all those events happening at once.

 

**June 1946**

"Hey! Pidge!" She recognizes that voice. It haunts her dreams in a way that she loves to loathe. "I know you're there, I can see the lights on. It's Keith!"

"Yeah, yeah, one second!" she shouts back, putting down the pitcher she's holding and wiping her hands against the pastel-colored apron that her mother had given her. She walks slowly through the main hall of her formerly-shared house to unlock the front door. It opens with a little bit more force than necessary—she should buy a new lock—and she greets her guest with a hand on a cocked hip.

"You know, some warning would've been nice. I know I gave all of you my phone number for a reason. Same with my address. Not that you aren't welcome," she hastily amends as a pink flush begins to creep up her face. "It's just a shock to see you here." Realizing that she's been rambling as she's stalked back into the house indignantly, she turns around and finally sees him still standing at the doorway. His jaw's literally dropped and his eyes are wide. "Well, come on in! It's not like you're a stranger."

He closes the door behind him, and places his one small suitcase by the door. It takes him a few moments to walk through the house, almost in a trance-like state. He swallows as he makes eye contact with her again before blurting out, "You're wearing a dress."

"Yeah, and?"

"You're a girl," he adds, his voice raising at the end as though his observation is a question.

"Woman, thank you very much." It's only then that she realizes that she never actually _did_ have that conversation with him about her false name during the war. And it's been nearly a year since the war ended. Procrastination at its finest. "Oh. Shit."

"'Oh.' Really? The heck, Pidge?"

"Katie. Katherine Holt. But please, continue." She moves to the kitchen of her house, taking out glasses and pouring them each a glass of lemonade. She doesn't speak, having learned from their years working side-by-side that he processes best in silence.

"Explain." It should sound like an order, coming from him. Instead it sounds like a plea, a desperate request for the truth.

So as much as she fears the repercussions, she does. He's difficult to read, always has been when he's serious. But she can see the genuine hurt on his face when she reveals that everyone else except him had been privy to her secret or at least had voiced their suspicions earlier. It's because he was so distrustful of her motives from the start, she realizes. She'd played the part of Pidge so much better around him. Even though she'd nearly told him when they were stuck together, when he'd been taking care of her. And again when he'd gotten shot because she didn't want him to die while still believing lies. Somehow, she manages to see the small cracks in his armor as she mentions those moments, and she apologizes.

He's good at pretending it doesn't hurt. But he also understands why she did it.

"Do you have any alcohol?" Keith asks, when their conversation and inquiries finally lull into silence. "I think a stiff drink would be great."

She could use one as well. "Even though it's _apparently_ unladylike to drink strong liquor," Katie says, reaching in the cabinet above the sink. She stands on her tiptoes to reach a dark bottle, "a certain person told me there's nothing better than bourbon when you're feeling tired."

"I'm pretty sure I told you that it eases the physical pain... when you had a sprained ankle."

"Also works pretty well after a tough day's work."

She pours them each a glass, refilling what had once held lemonade.

"I guess what I came here to ask goes out the window," he muses, taking a sip of the caramel-colored liquid.

"You never told me you were in town." To be fair, their correspondence had been the most lacking out of everyone—only a letter or two a month.

"I got transferred last week. I just got in today."

"Geez, not much of a warning."

He laughs at that, but it's lighthearted. "Tell me about it."

"Where are you staying?" she asks. "I do have an extra room. I was lending it out to a former schoolmate, but she moved into the city with her fiancé, so it's entirely free."

"I can't ask that, even though I came here to see if you had room on your couch," he insists. "It wouldn't be acceptable."

She arches an eyebrow at that. Is he that concerned by societal expectations? The guy who gave her alcohol in the middle of a mission to dull the pain of a sprained ankle? Was he seriously this different during peacetime? Where was the impulsive and confidently headstrong soldier she went into battle with?

"I mean, you're a lady! What would people think?"

She wants to bite back, but instead she can feel her cheeks burning. She takes another sip of her drink, leveling her gaze at him, daring him to make a better argument.

"Sorry, it's just... weird."

"Weird that a girl's been fighting alongside you the entire time?"

He flushes. "Weird that I guessed it correctly two or three weeks after I first met you. I told my suspicions to Shiro, and he completely changed my mind about it."

She smiles slightly, just an upturned quirk of her lips. "I knew Shiro would keep my secret. I didn't mean for it to get out of hand, or for you to remain in the dark for so long." _I almost told you at Hunk and Shay's wedding_ , Katie wants to say but stops herself. Because that would mean explaining why she didn't and... she's not quite ready to admit that aloud.

A silence falls between them, tenuous and awkward. She finishes her drink, taking in his appearance. He looks good, like he's finally relieved of the burden of war. There are still visible scars crisscrossing his arms, but he wears them more of a badge of honor than as regrets, and her eyes train on where she remembers the bullet wound on his torso.

"I know why you did it. We're still looking for them, Pidge. We're going to find them."

She smiles warmly at that. "I sure hope so. She pauses a moment before adding, "The offer still stands. You have a room here if you want it."

"It's really not appropriate."

"More appropriate than you slinging me over your shoulder and running from grenades? Or me teaching you how to hotwire a truck?" Hearing no retort, she continues. "Worst thing that happens: you hate living with me and find another place to live.” She extends a hand.

He scowls before shaking her hand; there it is, that's the man she knows. "Deal."

 

**August 1946**

Shay and Hunk make an impromptu visit—a very belated housewarming—nearly two months after Keith joins her. It's the heat of summer. The sunlight seems to never set, and the sweltering waves of heat still feel better than the heat of battle. Although, every once in a while, they both admit to missing the adrenaline rush. Katie isn't prepared for their visit at all. She answers the knocking on the door in her robe and nightgown, her long hair tangled to no end.

She yawns, blinking sleep from her eyes as she answers the door. "Who's there? Oh, hi, Shay. Hunk." She pulls open the door, gesturing for them to enter. As the unexpected guests make their way into the sitting room, she calls up stairs. "Keith, wake up! Hunk and Shay are here!"

There's a muffled groan from the second floor followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.

Shay blinks in confusion. "Keith is here too?"

"Yeah," Katie replies with a half-hearted laugh. There's suspicion in the woman's eyes. "He's practically nocturnal. I think he got back at three? They have him working the worst hours."

Hunk raises an eyebrow at her reaction. "How did he handle you being... you?" It's a fair enough question.

She shrugs in response. "Sometimes I think he forgets that who I was during the war wasn't entirely me. He stares at me like I'm a stranger with the face of a friend."

"Yeah," Keith cuts into the conversation, stifling a yawn. She hadn't noticed him enter the room. "It's weird seeing our code breaker doing feminine stuff, okay? And Pidge, we're almost out of food. I'll go grab ingredients. You put the list on the kitchen table?" He leaves the room and returns with the list and Katie's coffee mug in hand. He passes off the cup of coffee. "You look dead, drink up. I'll be back in a few minutes. The store's just down the road."

Hunk stands up to join him. "I'll drive. After all, Keith and I haven't really talked since the wedding."

They leave Katie and Shay alone in the house. After finishing her coffee, and listening to Shay's story about the drive to the house, Katie pours glasses of lemonade—the one thing never in short supply—as they take a seat in the kitchen. Shay places a small casserole on the table from a hidden pocket in her bag.

"I had made this for lunch, but I was not anticipating a fourth person. I fear it may not be enough for all of us."

"It's perfect, Shay," Katie says with a smile. "Thank you."

That elicits a wide grin from the woman across from her. "You know, it is quite strange to see you like this. Domestic... and happy."

She can feel the flush on her cheeks. Is it that different? She's still working with Allura, despite more frequently picking up shifts at a nearby diner. She also still trains, and will go on actual missions when they need a female agent. She's worked with Shiro once since the war, and with Lance a couple times. Keith and Hunk get called in on occasion, but she hasn’t seen them at her work.

There's nothing quite like the rush of emotions in the heat of battle... but she will admit that she is happy.

Clearing her throat, Katie says, "I never thought I'd be living in my own house on the outskirts of the city, sharing a house with my former second-in-command and not freaking out."

"You are so much brighter now," Shay points out. "You smile more than when you visited in May."

"Really?"

"It might just be the hormones speaking. But—”

"Hormones? Are you saying you're pregnant?"

Shay nods. "Yes. I was going to tell Hunk when we get back home." She's grinning, a glow on her cheeks. "I wanted to talk to someone, and it is not as though I am a part of any book or garden clubs."

"Congratulations! If you need anything..."

"I would let you know, Katie. You have been there for me since the beginning."

Their conversation turns to simpler topics as they continue talking. Shay tells her how working as a personal seamstress has its perks, and how she's been saving money to surprise Hunk with a fancy dinner—even though he'll insist on helping her cook. Katie's jobs aren't the most interesting. It's mostly a lot of waiting and tolerating people. When Shay asks about Keith, her entire demeanor shifts. Words are easier when you're talking about someone else and complimenting them, after all.

Katie doesn't even realize how much time has passed until she hears familiar footsteps in the hall. As they all gather in the kitchen where Hunk insists on cooking for all of them, it's simple enough to slip into the habits they'd formed over the years. Katie and Keith have a rapport of natural teasing, and it's easy to avoid the question she knows Hunk is dying to ask. It's only at the end of the meal, when she's watching dishes in the kitchen, that Hunk manages to get a moment alone with her. Shay and Keith are in deep conversation in the sitting room, and she can hear their voices faintly from where she stands.

"Pi-Katie?" She hums in acknowledgment to Hunk's inevitable question. "Are you okay? Like, actually okay?"

"I'm happy." It's bizarre yet calming, voicing the truth aloud.

"You're also hurting yourself. You're not the best with emotions." There's a careful tone to his voice.

"You say it as though I don't already know."

"None of us want to see you hurt."

"I'm guessing you talked to Lance?"

He snorts at that. "More along the lines of I have eyes." He gives her a hug, and it reminds her of having an older brother again. "Just... don't wait for the calm. You're the one who gave me that advice."

 

**November 1946**

"This isn't a big mission, at least in the eyes of the government. We're lucky to have gotten it approved." Shiro stands in front of the members of Voltron, arms folded. He's wearing civilian clothes; they all are. "We have confirmation on the Holts' location."

"Only took the entire war," Keith comments.

Katie's entire body buzzes with energy. She's so close, she could reach out her arms and touch it. "What's the plan?"

Allura steps in, detailing their best course of action. The area's a large town, so it's not like they can run a full-scale grid pattern mission. Instead, she's sending in Katie and Keith under the guise of a couple looking for housing and Shiro as a lone wanderer. Lance and Hunk are on standby, listening on the radio for any signs of trouble.

And with that, they're off to another country.

She's almost shaking when they arrive in town. She's fidgeting, folding and unfolding her hands. It should be simple enough to pretend that it's just an average day, despite the anxiety that threatens to destroy their cover.

"Hey, Pidge." She doesn't even register the nickname that he only uses at home until he wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. It's a perfect move for their cover, and she feels a bit of relief and the reminder that she's not alone. "Katie," he amends, "What's wrong?"

She shivers and it has nothing to do with the late autumn wind or her nerves. They continue walking as she searches for her words. She doesn't want to voice her hesitation, her worries.

"Katie?"

"What if it isn't them? What if they're really gone?" She's never broken down in front of anyone, and she definitely won't do it now.

"You know I don't have the answer to that. But I'm—we’re here for you regardless what happens."

"Thanks," she replies, and she feels like she should say more, much more.

It's simple to locate the only two English-speaking scientists live. They only ask a half-dozen people before they're directed to a small shop and the apartment above it. It's well-maintained on the inside, and a bell rings as they enter the premises.

"Just a minute," a familiar voice calls out from the back before hastily repeating the phrase in the country's native language."

She can't help the tears that prick at the corners of her eyes. "No..."

"Pidge?"

"It's him."

Before she's able to elaborate on that statement, the person who had responded earlier appears from the back room. It's a man around Shiro's age, possibly older. But the similarities are there, and the war hasn't changed his appearance much. He's wearing a new pair of glasses—an entirely different shape than before.

He speaks in the native tongue, and Katie's grateful that she's picked up enough of it to understand what he asks. "Can I help you?" Noticing her emotional state, he adds as he suspiciously glances towards Keith, "Is everything all right, miss?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not okay," she responds. "My older brother and dad haven't been home in years. My mom thinks that they're dead, and I've been searching for over five years." She then moves forward, "And you're right here in front of me!"

He blinks before dropping the pen that he’s holding.

She rushes into a hug, saying, "I missed you, Matt."

He's speechless for a minute. "Katie?" Tears begin to fall down his cheeks as he calls out, "Dad! Get down here now!"

Samuel Holt rushes down the stairs, grumbling something about unruly customers. Seeing the girl in front of him, it's as though he's seen a ghost.

Her father's voice is shaky as he croaks out, "Colleen?"

She shakes her head. "Not quite. Hi, daddy."

The whirlwind of familial emotions only increases when Shiro appears. Laughter, crying, endless hugs. Her family members had been put in a work camp until they escaped right before they end of the war. They had started up the shop to pay for tickets back home—all proof of identification had been lost when they'd been captured. And the main city nearby had been a Galra stronghold. They didn't want to say anything and risk being captured again.

No one really mentions the war in detail, and Shiro and Keith at least have the foresight to avoid mentioning what they youngest Holt did during the war.

Her family packs and say the necessary goodbyes. It's surreal, and she's holding onto the closeness of her family as though they could vanish again. It takes a few days to expedite the paperwork to bring them back home, but Katie pulls in every single favor she's owed—and there are a lot of them. But she knows that having lost them took a huge toll on her mother.

The boat ride back feels longer than the other times she's crossed the ocean. It feels like time's dilating, stretching longer and slowing down the closer they get.

Matt and her father strike up conversations with the other soldiers, finally starting to discuss the war in broken bits and pieces. She bites her tongue when they hint at a mission she'd personally been on, an attempt to keep her family from having to lie. But she's left with two options when they turn a bombardment of questions towards her.

She raises a smug eyebrow at the questions, briefly sparing a glance towards her teammates. They all give her varying expressions, but all ones that she's learned mean that she's in charge of what happens next, that it's her decision.

She swallows the lies that would be so easy to say, meeting her father's eyes determinedly. Her voice is squeaky as she asks, "Do you want the truth, what Mom knows, or what's in the official books?"

Her dad chokes on the food he's eating, and coughs into his hand. "What in the world did you get yourself into, sweetheart?"

Her brother laughs, as though expecting that she'd been up to something during the war. "The truth," he says. "I want to know what my little sister did that requires an official story."

She stretches before standing up from her seat squished between Shiro and Keith. The boat they're traveling in rocks with the waves, and she manages to pick up its rhythm as she paces. She knows that she is bound to end up rambling, but it'll be good to get the truth out.

"I'd rather that Mom be here too," she comments, "But I guess I'll tell her the truth when we get back, together."

Matt claps his hands together, as though they're kids again and it's story time. "This is going to be good, I can tell."

Katie smiles at that. "I suppose," she begins, "It all started when I woke up in the middle of the night to Mom answering the front door to find a pair of soldiers waiting..."

 

**December 1946**

“Pidge, you okay?”

“Fine.”

“You’re lying.”

She scowls at that, continuing to mix the dessert ingredients with even more force than before. “I’m not fine.”

She can imagine the look of concern on his face as he says, “You know you can talk to me.” She can practically see the small frown and body language.

“Technically, I am talking to you.”

“Pidge…”

“My parents want me to change my life again,” she declares as she adds milk and eggs into the flour and sugar mix. “They think that I’m too focused on the past, too attached to who I was during the war.” She bites back that they think she’s making a mistake with her life, or they’ve been avoiding those exact words.

“That’s new. Your dad seemed really proud of you.”

It’s a bitter smile that crosses her face. “I think that this line of thought only started when they discovered that you and I share a house.”

“It was bound to happen at some point. Honestly, I’m pretty sure most of the neighbors assume we’re married.” He hands her the baking pan. “But it’s not as though we’re married or anything. Most of society would find our situation strange.”

“But—” she’s very glad she’s turned away to pour the cake batter into the pan; there’s a blush dusted across her cheeks.

“Katie, I think I’m the only—one of the very few people who wouldn’t take advantage of how we’re living. It might be because I know you could kill me in my sleep and still sleep with your pistol under your pillow, but if you think about it, most people would probably assume the wrong thing. And I don’t necessarily blame them.” It sounds like he’s about to say something else, but he doesn’t.

“Doesn’t mean they should tell me that I should try working full-time in the diner or as a proper job… Or that I should find a proper place to live.”

“And yet you’re still going to stay with them for two weeks.”

“We haven’t had a family holiday in years. I lost so much time with them. The war was terrible, and I’m doing my best to make up for what happened.”

“At least you’re sure.” He’s hesitant, and as she turns to face him, she can see the concern in her eyes. “You should probably finish packing your bags. I’ll keep an eye on the cake.”

Placing the tray in the oven, she smiles at him. “Don’t worry about me. They’re not going to get me to change my mind.”

“You’re much too stubborn for that,” he says, reaching over to ruffle her hair, and he smiles.

She knows, logically, that her situation isn’t the best, especially when she’s in love with a guy who clearly doesn’t see her as anything more than a close friend, one of the guys.

But she won’t move away, not when she’s happy.

She can handle a little bit of heartache.

After all, she’s been in love with him for years, if she dares to admit it to herself. Maybe she could have done something earlier, maybe she could have been a different person entirely. Maybe they would have met through friends or in passing and he’d consider taking her out for dinner and dancing. Maybe they would have passed on the street and she would have been the one to talk to him first. Maybe things could be different.

Katie shakes those thoughts from her head as she packs her small suitcase for the holidays. She can’t linger on what could be, not like this. After all, she has the fortune of being happy and not pining from a distance. She gets to see the delight in his eyes when something goes as planned, but also gets to be there when the military’s being stupid and shafting him from taking part in missions.

She doesn’t want to have to pretend to be a proper lady, or to have to reign in her own personality. As she finishes carrying down her suitcase from the second floor, she spots Keith in the kitchen, working on paperwork from the office. He’s spending the holiday with the Shiro and meeting up with the rest of Voltron for a few days, so he’s trying to get all his paperwork done before going to meet with them.

He looks up and smiles at her.

Really, she’s fine leaving things the way that they are.

 

**January 1947**

If anything, the holidays tempered her parents’ worry. She’s repaired a lot of the tensions, and Matt’s supporting her. It’s their last day together before she returns home, and her mom insists on taking her out for lunch.

She’s learned a lot about how life has changed for her family. Matt walks with a permanent limp, needing to use a crutch on his bad days. Her father still wakes on occasion with nightmares of the camp they were in. There’s a guilt that nags at her for not being close, so she promises herself that she’ll be there for her family more frequently.

Katie finds herself in the kitchen in the early morning hours, pulling together some coffee—she can’t function happily without it—and some crackers. There’s snow outside, and she moves from the wooden table into the sitting room, where she curls up in her father’s armchair and takes out a book on mechanics. It’s largely things she already knows, about radios and cars. She writes in the margins, notes on how to improve the techniques and diagrams. She doesn’t even realize that her mother’s woken up, following Katie into the sitting room with a mug of hot cocoa in her hands.

“Kitty, sweetheart,” her mom greets, using her family nickname. “How are you?”

“Really well. I can’t believe I’m going back today.”

“I’m just glad I get to see my daughter more frequently.” Her eyes flick down at the book in Katie’s hands, lingering a bit longer than necessary. “I haven’t seen that book before.”

“It was a present. Keith wanted to make sure I got it before New Year’s.”

Her mother’s eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, their conversation continues, winding around topics and discussing whatever comes to mind. She doesn’t want to be the one to broach the elephant in the room, and it appears that her mother doesn’t either. They talk about her brother—now working for an intelligence agency in the city, as one of their favored public speakers. Katie would guess it’s the hint of foreign accents that still slip into his everyday speech. Her father is writing a book on the first-hand experiment of the world. It’s simple enough to talk when conversation turns to the other members of Voltron, even if her family doesn’t know the specific name. Lance got a job as a radio announcer on the side, like Katie’s job as a waitress. There’s only so much that can be done in the espionage business on a day-to-day basis. Hunk’s a total nervous wreck as Shay keeps growing, even though everyone agrees that they’ll make great parents. Shiro’s been working with Allura and Coran, all of them attempting rescue missions and retrievals for prisoners of war.

“What about Keith?” Her mom asks with the traditional amount of Holt tact—none at all.

Katie manages to delay her response as she hears her brother shuffling around. It’s simple enough to escape the question altogether by insisting that she’ll go and make breakfast. Her mother follows her to the kitchen, offering her assistance.

“I won’t ask you to change how you live, Kitty,” her mother says as they light the stove and begin to cook together.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I just ask that you marry him before any of my grandchildren are born.”

Katie nearly drops the plate she’s carrying. “It’s not like that!” She stares at her mother, wide-eyed in shock. Thankfully, her brother still hasn’t come into the kitchen as she splutters defensively.

“Katherine, I’m not blind. I can see how you feel.”

“It’s not like that,” she repeats, this time feeling the heaviness in that statement.

Realizing the change in her daughter’s tone, Colleen Holt pulls back from teasing, this time wrapping an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and placing a kiss to her forehead.

The ex-soldier gives her mother a watery smile before tucking a strand of fallen hair behind her ear. “It’s okay.”

And really, it is.

 

**April 1947**

Katie Holt sits at the kitchen table, exhausted from picking up a double-shift at the diner when one of the other part-timers calls out sick. Halfheartedly, she sips at a coffee as she listens to the interactions of her friends from the other room. She moves into the hallway, and she can see Hunk introducing Keith to baby Elizabeth, who clutches onto Keith’s finger and refuses to let go. A smile crosses her face as she sees her housemate smile and start talking to the two-month-old child.

She quickly backs away as pinpricks of jealousy threaten to dampen the mood and she wants to avoid souring the happy atmosphere.

She really needs sleep.

“Is anything wrong?” Shay asks, following Katie into the kitchen again. “You have… not been yourself today.”

“I’m just tired,” she responds, taking a seat at the table. “Flowers are the worst part of spring for me, but apparently Amelia’s pollen allergy is even worse than mine. So, I picked up her last few shifts until she’s feeling better.”

Katie stretches, eyes traveling to Shiro and Lance who have appeared at the doorframe to the sitting room and are watching the baby with amusement. A bubbly laugh emerges from the stroller, breaking her sour mood. She doesn’t think that she’ll ever be able to be mad at her goddaughter.

Shay places a hand on top of hers, a confused look on her face. “You are certain you are okay?”

She nods. “I’ve just been thinking a lot lately.”

“About what?”

“The future.”

Over the past year, she’s been to a half-dozen weddings and celebrated the births of her childhood friends’ first children. Those who haven’t already settled down with their childhood sweethearts are off on career paths of being nurses or secretaries for large company bosses. And while she loves her jobs and the people there, it’s not the same thrill as when she was constantly active. It feels strange; she had always been the one with plans for her future, despite her tomboyish nature. And now, she doesn’t even have the guts to tell her feelings to the guy she’s been in love with for years.

Shay can read it, plain-as-day across Katie’s face, especially as the hostess’ gaze lingers on the spot where Keith normally sits at the table. “Oh, sweetheart, you can’t blame yourself. Don’t you dare.”

“I know. It’s just…” Amber eyes flick towards the empty hall before she says words that she’d never think would escape her lips. “I’d love to have what you and Hunk have. A loving family, a domestic life. Eventually a kid if possible.” She pauses, voicing aloud the one thought that’s been holding her back for a while, “But who wants the tomboy who can’t even admit to what she does for a profession and mostly works as a waitress just to keep up appearances? And it’s not as though I’m about to change who I am anytime soon.”

Shay moves to wrap an arm around Katie’s shoulders. It’s warm and comforting as she realizes how good it feels to have a friend to talk with. Shay presses a kiss to the crown of her head before whispering, “You do know that anyone who does not see how wonderful you are is, quite frankly, an imbecile.” She smiles. “And who knows what will happen. The world works in strange ways.”

“I suppose,” she responds, unconvinced.

“After all, what were the chances that we would all meet and become this close?”

“Good fortune,” Hunk says from the doorway to the kitchen, startling the women. “I think Elizabeth wants your attention.”

“Oh. I’ll be right over.”

Shay hastily exits the room, murmuring an apology to Katie. Hunk takes a seat next to Katie without saying anything.

“So how much did you hear?”

“Enough to prompt a conversation.”

“How much of an idiot am I?”

“You’re not an idiot, Katie. I’m just confused.”

Now this is surprising. “Why?”

“You know you’re like a sister to me. I just want you to be happy. After all, you were the one who insisted that I didn’t waste any time with Shay to tell her my feelings. But you’ve had so long to take action but you _haven’t_.”

“I know.”

“Why not?” he asks softly. “You don’t have to answer. You’re just both struggling, and neither of you are the most… forward about emotions.”

“I’ve waited too long.”

He shakes his head. “I promise you, you haven’t.” He opens his mouth to say something else in addition, but whatever he’s about to say is drowned out by uproarious laughter from the other room and a call for the both of them.

She’s got a lot to think about.

 

**July 1947**

The music from the band swells as she sits at the bar, nursing a third glass of alcohol. She’s by no means a heavy drinker, but the bartender is watching her warily, as though he expects her to fall out of her seat at any second. She glances over to Lance, who’s attracted the attention of several women. He’s half-heartedly listening to them, and she figures that he’s also concerned for her well-being.

The room is filled with cigarette smoke and the smell of booze. She’s getting tipsy, or at the very least she will be soon. There’s a guy next to her, apparently a former soldier, who’s mildly interesting, but he starts talking about the war as though it was an ideal time. She narrows her eyes at that, asking where he was stationed. His stories are lies—he doesn’t even have the right names of the commanding officers from those stations—and she tears apart the tales without any remorse. It might be the liquor kicking into her system. Instead, she turns him away before he would become known as the fake ex-soldier knocked out of his chair by a petite woman.

The dance floor is filled with couples, dancing happily and laughing as they glide across the room. Motioning for the bartender, she orders and finishes another drink—lighter this time—before tracking down Lance. It’s easy enough to find him, just follow the sound of laughter and terrible flirting.

“Lance!” she calls out, pushing her way through the crowd. She stumbles forward slightly, cursing the heeled shoes she’d chosen rather than a practical pair. “I’m ready to leave.”

She ignores the other women and their glares, looping her arm through his and leaning against him. “Katie,” Lance complains, dragging out the last syllable. He looks down at her and frowns. “How much did you drink?”

Katie grins in response. “Not _that_ much,” her words slur together as she leans into his shoulder.

“I’m walking you home,” Lance declares, apologizing to the group of giggling ladies.

The crowd of people parts, albeit slowly, as Katie watches her footsteps. Yeah, she’s a bit more unsteady on her feet than she would care to admit, and the world seems to spin as she snaps her head up to look at Lance. “Whoa.”

“Seriously, how much did you drink?”

“Four. No, wait, five. Liar Mc-lie-face bought me one.” She grimaces at the memory of that man leering at her. “Should have just kicked out his chair from under him.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t.”

“Well, the other option was dancing with you. Figured you wouldn’t want me stepping on your toes.”

“Still waiting on you to cave on the dance offer.”

“Not gonna happen,” Katie replies in a sing-song voice. “Can we walk back?”

“It would be quicker to get a taxi,” Lance points out.

“I really don’t want to be seen like this.” She knows, or at least the last bit of logic in her mind knows, for a fact that all that she’s drank hasn’t even kicked in yet, and it’s going to take a while to get it out of her system. It’s almost an hour’s walk to the suburban area where her shared house is.

Lance seems to hesitate, a small scowl on his face.

“Please.”

The scowl disappears. “At least you still weigh practically nothing. And I’m _not_ cleaning up if you get sick.”

“Thank you.” Tears begin to prick at the corners of her eyes for no discernable reason. Lance tightens his grip around her waist, and pats her back awkwardly. Katie manages a weak smile at the attempt. It’s not as soothing as she’d expect. Maybe she’s just accustomed to Keith’s way of handling her emotional outbursts—oh yeah. _That’s_ why she’s crying. The first teardrop streaks down her face, ruining the little bit of makeup she’d put on for the evening.

“What’s wrong?” he asks as they continue their way out of the city.

“I’m just… tired, I guess,” she says wearily, leaning more of her weight against him.

“I can see that.”

The streets are fairly empty, with streetlights flickering and attracting summertime bugs. The yellowish glow from above makes her skin look eerily sallow and unhealthy. The light streaks of mascara-mingled tears only compound her poor appearance.

They make it about halfway back, cutting through a park and a few alleyways when Katie slows her pace. She’s oddly quiet and comments about it aloud while apologizing.

“Don’t worry,” Lance insists, still supporting her. “I’m the one who suggested going out and drinking.”

They walk a few more blocks, and she can see the corner to her street when she repeats, “I’m tired.” But this time, it feels more like an epiphany. Or maybe she’s known it all along and the liquor has loosened her tongue.

“I can see that,” Lance says again, but this time, there’s a knowing tone to his voice.

“At least _someone_ does,” she mutters. “Does he even realize that I’m a girl? Woman. Beside the point. Does he even see _me_?”

Lance grabs her shoulders and turns her to face him, ignoring the fact that the action sends her entire world spinning and it takes her a second to focus. “Look at me. He sees you, Katie. He’s seen you for years.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but at the last second decides against it.

“He’s done one hell of a job showing it,” she grumbles, not meeting his eyes. “He’s the most apathetic person I’ve met.”

He snorts. “You’re lying.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders, nudging her forward to start walking again. “Keith’s the most impulsive out of all of us. You’d know that better than anyone.”

She purses her lips, as though searching for a response. It is true, she’ll admit. “Yeah, okay. But answer me this.” Her words are fast and slurred together, but still purposeful. “Why doesn’t he just go and date? He could ask any of the office girls at his work. I know that one who’s always gossiping—Molly, I think—would _love_ to spend time with him. Or even Dorothy—you know, the one secretary who Allura hired a few months back—Keith actually talks to her whenever he stops in the office to see us.”

“Oh, Pidge, what am I going to do with you?” he asks, shaking his head as they turn the corner to Pidge’s house. They’re barely a block away. The turn causes her to sway, and he catches her as she’s about to topple over. Damn, the heels were a bad decision.

“You’re… you’re pitying me.” The thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth; she’d always thought that Lance would always be the one to have her back.

“I’m not pitying you,” he whispers as they continue their way to her house. “But you need to talk to each other about this.”

“Maybe when I’m sober.”

“Now, Katie. Otherwise you’ll never do it.”

“I hate you right now.”

“Nah, you love me.”

“Hate you.”

“We’re here.”

She silently curses. How had she managed to walk to the front stoop of her house without realizing?

Oh, yeah. Alcohol.

He knocks twice on the door, and there’s no answer. Katie fishes out her key from the bottom of her purse before handing it to Lance. She definitely won’t be able to unlock the door if she’s swaying while standing still.

He leads her to the sitting room and Katie slumps onto the couch, kicking off the high-heeled shoes that have been instruments of torture the entire night. She hears footsteps rushing upstairs to Keith’s room, and curses aloud. Lance is really meddlesome when he wants to be.

Less than a minute later, he’s followed back downstairs by a sleep-addled Keith. Her cohabitant’s hair is a mess and his pajamas are wrinkled and half-undone. She smiles at the image in front of her before scowling at Lance. “You really didn’t have to wake him up.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t!” She tucks her feet underneath herself on the couch, making herself as small of a target as possible.

He turns to Keith. “You, sit.”

Keith takes a seat in his usual spot, a look of confusion on his face. “What’s going on? Can’t this wait until morning?”

“I’m tired too. But you two—” he points his finger before switching between them both, “—talk. Now. All feelings on the table. It used to be amusing but honestly, it’s been over a _year_! Just communicate for fuck’s sake!” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to get water. Talk. Otherwise you’ll both come to regret it.”

She refuses to speak, staring at the rug on the floor and praying that her cheeks aren’t quite as red as she thinks they are. Somehow, the rug become the most interesting object in the room, despite it being the same one that was in her childhood bedroom. It’s a deep green, bound together with white and black threads. Really, it’s fascinating.

“I don’t hear you talking!” Lance shouts out from the kitchen, causing her to jump.

“What does he want us to talk about?” Keith asks, confused. “He didn’t exactly give me a briefing on the topic.”

“Apparently,” she replies, dragging out the second syllable, “ _Feelings._ ”

“Oh.”

She looks up at that, just in time to see his face flush pink. “Yeah.”

“But why when you’re drunk?”

“Because I tell the truth. Even if it’s stupid.”

“Since when is the truth stupid?”

Lance walks in unnoticed, putting a glass of water into her hand. She smiles in thanks before taking a long sip. “When it ruins something that’s already pretty damn great.”

“I’m confused.” She could tell, just by the small furrow in Keith’s brow.

“Yeah, well me too.” She finishes the glass of water, slowly twisting it in her hands.

His words are carefully measured as he says, “Who says the truth would ruin anything?”

“Who says it wouldn’t?” She stifles a yawn before tugging at the blanket that’s always folded on the couch and pulling it across her lap.

“What is it you’re so afraid to say?”

“You’re really dense, aren’t you?”

“Hey!”

“Then again, we both are—” she yawns again, “—aren’t we?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m stupid, numbskull.”

“No, you’re not.”

Her eyelids feel heavy, and she smiles as she struggles to keep her eyes open. “Yeah, I really am.”

“Katie—” his voice is soft, that one voice he only ever uses when they’re alone. “—you’re amazing, brilliant, gorgeous, not to mention stubborn and one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Why do you keep thinking you’re less?”

Realization strikes her through her haze of sleep and alcohol—he rarely compliments anyone, and never with this much conviction. She doesn’t even think about her response as she smiles and lets her eyes close. “Yeah, I love you too, you damn idiot.”

When she wakes up in the morning, the last thing she remembers is the earnest temptation to kick out the stool from underneath that fake-soldier’s chair. She can feel her head throbbing, and she groans. She drags herself out of bed, changing into an oversized shirt and a pair of pants that she’d re-appropriated from Keith sometime during the spring. Pulling on her robe and slippers, she makes her way downstairs.

“You’re awake?” Keith asks, placing her already-filled coffee mug into her hands.

“Unfortunately.” She winces at the light streaming through the kitchen window.

“How’s your head?”

“Terrible. I’m sorry for whatever I did last night. Clearly Lance had to drag me home.”

“It’s… fine, don’t worry about it.” He turns around, searching one of the cabinets.

“Aspirin’s in the drawer to your left.”

It takes him a few seconds, but he takes out the medicine bottle and puts it on the table next to her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, you’re the best.”

 

**August 1947**

Katie walks into the sitting room, coffee mug in hand. The atmosphere in the house has been quite different for the past few weeks, and she can’t place her finger on it for anything other than coming back drunk. She supposes that it might just all be in her head, but sometimes she’ll catch Keith staring at her or into space.

What confuses her the most is when he packs up a suitcase, setting it at the base of the stairs. She nearly trips over it in the morning as she stumbles down the stairs, half-asleep.

“What’s with the bag?”

“Nothing?”

“Right.” She can’t help the cold tone to her voice. Guess she was bitter, even if she wasn’t showing it.

“I have more coffee,” Keith calls out from the kitchen, “and don’t lie and say you don’t want it.”

“Sure.”

She tucks herself into her regular chair, sipping at her coffee and flipping through a no-longer-classified mission debriefing that Allura gave her. Keith has off for the rest of the week, and it’s not like him to travel or do anything special when he doesn’t have work. The morning light filters in through the window, and it’s a welcome warmth on her skin, calming like a blanket.

A few hours later, she hears Keith rummaging through the closet, looking for something. She wrinkles her nose in a mix of annoyance and confusion; this isn’t like him at all. Closing the mission debrief, she places it on the side table and makes her way into the hall. He has his suitcase in one hand, and his jacket in the other. There’s a look in his eyes that she can’t quite place.

Done packing, he opens the front door. It looks like he’s about to say something but stops.

“Keith, where are you going?” This is the first time he hasn’t given her a warning about where he’s going, and she can’t help feeling like he’s hiding from her. It hurts.

“I was maybe going to visit Shiro. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“You don’t go out much anymore,” Katie notes aloud. “Not even when Lance or Hunk drop by.”

He shrugs. “Not really interested.”

“You don’t even go on dates—not that you have to—even when all those girls from work are clearly in love with you.” She forces herself to laugh, adding, “Lance would be so jealous.”

“And what about you?” he closes the door, stepping back into the house.

“Sorry, what?” Is he serious?

“Why don’t you?”

“Are you _seriously_ asking me that?”

“At least we’re not yelling at each other on the doorstep,” Keith points out, dropping his bag and jacket on the floor and taking the opportunity to fold his arms across his chest.

“Might as well be,” she grumbles.

“Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“So confusing.” She can’t describe the soft look in his eyes. It makes her heart flutter more than normal, but also makes her want to run.

She swallows, finding her throat surprisingly dry. “I’ll make some lemonade… okay?” She needs something to do so that she doesn’t dodge the conversation, like she’s been doing for months—years, if she’s honest with herself. She moves towards the kitchen pulling her robe closer around her as though that would help. Busying herself with making lemonade, she says, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I… I’m not sure.”

“Are you mad at me?”

She hands him a glass, a small smile on her face. “No. It’s not like I could stay mad either.”

“Then why didn’t you answer the question before?”

“I thought it was obvious. Or that you’d figured it out.” She presses her lips together into a thin line. “Then again, you were the last to figure out my disguise.”

“Only because everyone was trying to convince me otherwise,” he grumbles, which elicits a small laugh. “You thought what was obvious?”

It feels like she’s getting cornered; the conversation keeps winding back to the same topic, no matter how she tries to go off on a tangent. “Why do _you_ think I don’t date?”

“Other than the fact that you find most men to be quote: ‘Idiotic and unworldly pigs who can’t keep up with an intellectual’?”

“Yeah. Other than that.”

 “You’re in love with someone.” He tips his glass towards her meaningfully. “It’s the only other reason.”

“Yeah. Silly, isn’t it?”

“They would be stupid to say no if you asked them out on a date.”

“What about you?”

“What?”

“Would you go on a date with me?”

“Of course.”

“You’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re just being nice.”

“Why do you always do that?”

That confuses her. “What do you mean, always?”

“Say something like that and then rescind it. I would do anything if you asked.” His voice is soft, nearly inaudible.

Her heart is soaring, and she’s certain there’s a blush across her face. She twirls the glass of lemonade in her hands. “So,” she begins, voice hesitant and wavering, “will you go on a date with me? An actual date, not as friends. I know that it would probably be awkward, and of course you don’t have to say yes, but now is the best time I guess—”

“Katie,” he interrupts, “you’re rambling.”

“Oh.” Such an eloquent response.

“Yes.” He’s smiling softly, a blush on his face.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” he repeats, reaching his hand across the table. “I’m surprised it took you this long to ask.”

“You _knew_?”

He lowers his head sheepishly, not meeting Katie’s eyes. “You still don’t remember what happened when you and Lance went out for drinks?”

She shakes her head in response, searching her nonexistent memories.

“Lance made us talk. And I realized that I was being an idiot. But then you didn’t remember anything from that night.”

She places her hand in his, interlacing their fingers as she says, “We’re so stupid, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, I suppose we are.”

 

**October 1947**

She twists the thin metal band on her finger, imagining it as a different color and set with a single gem rather than a miniscule camera. She’s in hostile territory, undercover with nothing to lose. Well, if a large party with dazzling lights and fancy dresses counts as hostile territory.

Spying is different than being a soldier, as much as she likes to pretend otherwise.

She watches their target from across the room, while sitting at an empty table and sipping on a glass of water. The dress she’s wearing is surprisingly comfortable, made of a soft material but with space that allows her to fit her revolver and a variety of gadgets without anyone the wiser. She fiddles with the skirt, smoothing the pale green material while studiously ignoring the man who has already asked her to dance twice.

Espionage is its own kind of beast.

The target—a company scientist with Galra affiliations and access to materials that recently appeared on the black market—slips into the shadows, just out of her line of vision. Katie frowns. She can’t exactly cross the room without being noticed; the dance floor spans the entire room, and if she were to circle around, she’s certainly lose him.

“Care to dance?” A familiar voice asks, holding out a hand.

“I’ll only step on your toes,” Katie warns, grinning impishly as she twirls under his arm, focus still locked on the darkened hallway.

“I’ve handled worse,” Keith replies, spinning them around so she’s still facing the hallway. “Got a visual?” He pulls her closer, and she’s just able to see a faint outline of the man entering a previously unseen passageway.

“Was there anything about secret rooms on the plans we got earlier?” she asks, leaning forward.

“Coran said it was strange that there were only half-basement plans.” He maneuvers them across the dance floor, “Still in your line of sight?”

She shakes her head as they near the other side of the room.

“Allura’s gonna be pissed.”

“C’mon, Keith.” She wraps his arm around his, smiling.

They duck down the hall, playing the role well. She’s thankful for the dim light as they slip past doting couples and out of the line of sight of the event’s guards. She doesn’t move away from him, grateful for their closeness.

He pushes against the wall, and there’s a deep click as the seemingly innocuous wall opens. There’s the smell of cigar smoke and the sound of laughter and more music. Keith rests a hand on the handle of his gun as they move forward. They’re in uncharted territory now.

The mission is simple enough: get incriminating evidence that will lead to the target’s capture and imprisonment. They follow the source of music, walking down the faintly illuminated staircase. It opens into a network of rooms with glass windows and a central club-like room. There are couples dancing on the floor, and glasses of liquor out without a care in the world.

The man in question sits down at the bar, a briefcase in hand, which he sets on the floor next to him. He’s the only one still wearing his hat, rather conspicuous in this atmosphere.

“We need those files, or whatever it is in that case,” Keith whispers in her ear.

“I know. I can provide a distraction, if you can reach it.” She finally unwinds from her spot next to him.

“You’re going to flirt with him?” there’s a bit of hesitation in his voice, as though he doesn’t want her to go.

She laughs at that. “I’m not that bad at flirting.”

“I know.”

She looks at him, face softening into a kind expression. “It’s just a mission.” She’d kiss him right now, if it weren’t for the fact that they’re not supposed to be themselves. With a smile, she squeezes his hand before slipping off into the crowd.

It’s easy enough to act a little inebriated, not slurring her words, but not fully controlling her limbs either. Katie sidles up to the bar area, tugging herself into the chair next to that man. He’s attractive, maybe—warm eyes and golden hair—but he reeks of nervousness, fingers tapping on the bar nervously. He lifts his head, meeting her eyes. She smiles, learning forward.

He swallows nervously, “Hello.”

“Hello,” she responds, inching her arm closer to his. It’s actually embarrassing, having to pretend like this. Allura would be a million times better. “What brings you here?”

“Nothin’ much,” the man mutters, and she can see Keith making his way through the crowd.

“Surely, you’ve got a girl here,” she says, glancing towards the dance floor.

“No, miss.”

She traces a finger on the wood, drawing circles closer and closer to his hand, “Surely you can’t be that bad of a dancer. It’s a shame, the music is lovely.”

He tips the rest of his drink back, sighing deeply. There’s a hesitation in his eyes, and he glances around once before acquiescing. “Would you care to dance, miss?”

She manages a wink, suppressing her shudder. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Oh, the thing’s she’ll do for her job.

He leads her to the dance floor, and starts to lead. He’s not a terrible dancer, but he’s too controlling, and at the very least she’s able to see Keith steal the briefcase. Mostly, Katie’s thankful she doesn’t have to flirt with this man anymore. She steps on his toes a few times—intentionally—before he finally loosens his grip on her wrist. As she spins, she’s able to take a few pictures of the target and hidden club with the ring as they move about the dance floor. The song ends, falling on a strong chord that fades.

“Would you like a drink?” he inquires.

“Excuse me, your husband would like a word. He’s upstairs.” She’s not sure if she’s ever been more relieved to see her boyfriend’s face. “Now.” He plays the part of a broody guard well, if that’s what he’s going for. The glare he gives their target is nothing to scoff at either.

Katie makes a tutting noise before apologizing and storming towards the hidden staircase. Keith follows behind her quickly. As soon as they’re out of earshot, she turns around to face him.

“You got it?”

“It’s all here. Exactly what we came for.”

“Let’s go.”

They maneuver their way through the crowd with ease, just an ordinary couple. Their getaway vehicle is a block away, parked in an alley with plenty of escape routes. Taking a normal pace, she leans against him, resting her head against his shoulder. They make it to the car, no problem, and no alarms were raised. She checks the glove compartment for keys, to no avail.

“Guess we’re hotwiring a car.”

“Coran won’t be happy.” He fiddles with the wires, brow furrowed as he tries to remember how to start the engine.

She swats his hands away, leaning over and resting her elbows on the seat. It takes her less than thirty seconds to get the engine running. “Well, this was…”

“Uneventful?” he suggests, as they begin their drive to the headquarters.

“Embarrassingly boring?” She shudders, “I never want to have to flirt my way out of something again.”

“That works.”

It’s a silent ride until they reach the warehouse. He seems to be deep in thought—probably about whatever secrets he’s seen on the documents. She doesn’t push the topic, knowing full well that they’ll be debriefing in a few minutes anyway.

They pull into a small gravel lot in the warehouse district on the edge of the city. There’s only the faint moonlight illuminating their path—the sky has been threatening a rainstorm for days—as they make their way towards the door. It’s nearing one in the morning, and she yawns, stretching her arms. She types in the code despite her exhaustion.

She’s about to open the door when he places a hand on her shoulder, turning her around.

“Katie,” he says, watching her reactions intensely. “Can…” he hesitates and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

She frowns at that. They’ve spent too long not communicating. “What’s bothering you?”

“It’s stupid,” he declares, attempting to end the conversation.

“We’ve already been over the fact that we’re both stupid. Tell me.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Of course. You didn’t need to ask.” She can’t help the butterflies in her stomach, even though they’re heavily outweighed by the warm feeling when she reaches for his hand to pull him closer.

She feels the first raindrops fall onto her shoulders as she tilts her head up and stands on her toes to kiss him. They pull away, grinning like schoolchildren, just as the rain starts to cascade.

It’s their first kiss, spur of the moment in the rainy shadows of a warehouse.

But that doesn’t change that she thinks it’s perfectly _them._

 

**May 1948**

Katie sips her lemonade, watching her goddaughter walk around, clutching at the chairs strategically scattered about the garden. Keith sits next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. It’s strange, seeing everyone together again, at her house, no less.

Lance has brought along his girlfriend, a young woman from a fishing village not far from his hometown. Shay and Hunk hover by their daughter, making sure that the toddler doesn’t climb and fall from one of the chairs. Shiro sits with Allura and Matt, the three of them conferring over some upcoming event, Allura probably coming up with her own plans of some sort. Her own family mingles about, her parents talking to Coran, who’s enthralled by how different society has become.

She twists the ring on her finger, smiling as the gem reflects the sunlight and casts rainbows against her green dress. Elizabeth trips in the grass before giggling and starting to run again from chair to chair.

“Keith?”

“Hm?” her fiancé replies, surprised that she’s broken the silence.

“What do you think about kids?” She’s still watching her goddaughter.

“Didn’t your mom say to get married first?” he teases her, rubbing circles into her shoulder.

She hums at that, lifting amber eyes to meet blue. “Yeah, she did. But we’ve got a big enough house.”

“We do.” He lowers his voice, “You live in my room already,” he points out.

“Mine could become a nursery,” she whispers back.

“Sounds like you have a plan.”

“How do you feel about a summer wedding?” she asks, moving his hand to rest against her stomach.

“Katie, you’re—”

She nods, pressing a finger to her lips. “Yeah.”

Keith kisses her soundly, barely able to suppress his grin. “That sounds perfect.” Another quick kiss before adding, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

 


End file.
